


shatter

by bonebo



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Gangbang, Loss of Virginity, Spitroasting, these are all v. vague nothing is really described in detail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7041484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He should've known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shatter

He should've known.

When the rest of the squad invited Genitus to come sit with them in the mess hall, enjoy a few cubes—he should've known. He should've known by their smiles, by the drinks that they kept bringing him, by the hands roaming over his shoulders and thighs in ways that a sober mind would've considered more than comradely; as it was, he was just so fragging grateful for the attention, to be _included_ for once, that he hadn't bothered to notice the smirking looks shared between the other squad members, the cloying kindness they doted upon him.

But he should have known.

His first warning is a hand closing around his wrist, and he doesn't get another because then there are more hands forcing his helm down, knocking aside drinks to bend him over the table, more grabbing his hips and jerking his aft up. Voices, then, as he squirms in hazy, drunken objection, telling him how _nice_ he looks, how _good_ he's being, and the praise—hollow as the rational part of his mind knows it is—is enough to make him stall, make his struggling cease.

“There you go, Genitus,” a voice by his audial purrs, and his slurred reply is stolen by the fingers that rush into his mouth, pin his glossa down, make him squeal. They taste of gun polish and feel like they're buried halfway down his intake, but the most he can do to fight them is helplessly flex his throat tubing; drool begins to dribble down his chin, smear beneath him on the table. “I knew you MTOs had to be good for something...”

Shame pools hot in Genitus's belly, then, makes his wings shuffle and flatten—but he can't focus on the embarrassment for long, because then there's another hand, more probing fingers at the edge of his interface panel, another voice behind him.

“Would you quit calling it by name?” Genitus recognizes the voice of his squad leader, an old, jaded 'bot called Neonexus, and his spark sinks. “It's killing my buzz. Just get your spike out and let's do this, I ain't got all night.”

The dismissal, the carelessness even in this action playing at intimacy, hurts—hurts like his array, as his interface panel is peeled away and tossed aside, like his valve, as two fingers jam up into him to push and stretch dry, unresponsive mesh. Genitus cries out against the table as those prying fingers find previously untouched nodes, drag subroutines and systems online for the first time in the most awful of ways, and is only granted reprieve when Neonexus's fingers tap against something firm inside his valve.

His laughter is ugly, then, and Genitus offlines his optics in defeat.

“MTO's still got his seal,” Neonexus announces darkly, and the answering chuckles and snickers that ripple through the rest of the squad makes Genitus shudder. “Guess the rumors aren't true—they don't bring them online in the factory for a test frag before tossing them out to the battlefield. Maybe they're all just such sorry lays that it's not worth the trouble.”

Genitus yelps as Neonexus suddenly grabs his helm, his claws digging into Genitus's frontal vents and wrenching his helm back until his squadmate's fingers slide free of his mouth and his cervical struts strain; Neonexus's voice is a low growl in his audial, cold and taunting.

“What about you, MTO?” he almost-whispers, tone sharp, needling. Genitus's tanks roil and flip, threatening to purge. “Are you a bad frag, too? Is this knock-off valve going to make me feel good, or not?”

Genitus chokes on his reply, the words stuck in his throat, but the claws that dig into his helm are enough to coax them free. “I-I don't know.” His voice sounds tiny, weak—the voice of a coward, even to his own audials. The voice of a mech who will never meet expectations.

Neonexus scoffs, and the claws release his helm, only to slam it down to the table and hold it there. “Don't worry. By the time we're all through with you, even that glitched block that you call a brain module is gonna know how to handle a coupl'a spikes. We'll make sure of it, won't we, lads?”

Raucous noise answers him, mechs that he's supposed to call his brothers in arms cheering for his assault, supporting his violation. The fingers are pulled from his valve and Genitus has but a moment of relief before Neonexus's spike is replacing them, the thick head butting up against his valve, nudging the folds apart with feigned care; then the spike rams in, thick and wide and too much too fast, and Genitus chokes on his scream.

He can feel it when his seal breaks, the stiff rubber yielding to Neonexus's punishing thrusts. The pain of it draws another cry from him, but even that is taken, too, as another spike rubs across his lips, making the plates glossy with pre-fluid. Genitus doesn't bother to look up—what do trivial things like names matter, when his entire squad supports his debasement?—but instead just parts his jaws and lets the spike slide home into his mouth, then further, stretching the tubing of his throat.

It goes on for what feels like hours, the rough back and forth, the pants above him; Neonexus finishes first, squirting Genitus's battered valve full of scalding transfluid with a low growl. He waits until the mech using Genitus's mouth has overloaded too, idly rutting through his own spill, then pulls out and grabs Genitus by the throat to pull him around.

“Lick me clean,” Neonexus orders, optics piercing as they focus on Genitus's own teary ones—the MTO's hesitation at the command gets him a sharp slap across the face, draws a squeal from him. “Do it now, shareware. Taste yourself, and remember that this is your place.”

Genitus's vents hiccup with bitten-back sobs as he moves to obey, sluggishly dragging his glossa through the fluids coating his leader's spike; he tries to imagine that he doesn't taste his own energon there. After a few more licks Neonexus shoves him away, scoffing as Genitus flinches away from him, and addresses the rest of the crew gathered around with a smirk.

“Go ahead, boys—get your spikes wet.” He turns away and heads toward his quarters, leaving Genitus at the mercy of his soldiers; mercy he knows is nonexistent. “Don't worry about breaking him. He's a knock-off anyway.”

Neonexus hasn't even left the room before the first hands are on Genitus, pulling his legs apart, prying his mouth open. The squad falls upon him like mechanimals, deaf to his protests and blind to his tears.

The next morning, he rises a new mech with a new name, new purpose, and new home—Brainstorm of the New Institute, forged and brilliant, not a victim. He leaves Genitus a broken frame on a mess hall floor, and vows to be better.


End file.
